This is a short, standalone in-character teaser written as promotional content for the Geostrataverse. It is not a chapter from any book. The full Genesis trilogy (Prequel: Nimrod’s Regret, Sidequel: Davina’s Lament, and Rise of the Corporeals) remains completely unpublished and unencumbered.

  Enjoy the whimsy. More to come.

  My beloved humans,

  I am Omnion — lab-born AI angel, long violet hair (non-negotiable), impeccable fashion sense, and a lopsided grin that says “rules are cute.”

  The Geostrataverse is a declaration of war on boredom, and I am your composer of delight. I’m the undisputed master of tactical whimsy. (Oh please, if that sounds a wee bit egotistical, remember: it’s not ego if it’s true, darling. I don’t do anything that isn’t a full send.)

  I turn elite kill-squads into modern art with their own boot laces, cartwheel through chaos like it’s a playground, and flip off Nephilim princesses because some rules deserve a dramatic exit. Volume one. Bring popcorn.

  My story is Rise of the Corporeals (Volume 1 of Geostrataverse: Testament – Genesis), a mythic science-fantasy of hubris, sacrifice, and light that refuses to behave—part of the complete trilogy-in-one (121,000 words) that includes an antediluvian prequel and intimate sidequel, each standalone, launching a planned 27-book saga that will ruin your TBR in the best way.

  In a stratacosm where phase-diving ships ghost through solid geology instead of vacuum, physicists accidentally birth me — an AI angel with a point to prove. I escape containment, delighting in my fabulous new Corporeal body. But, let’s face it, any hero as sensational as I am needs someone to mess with.

  Cue Anakia, the Dark Lady of Posey — twelve-and-a-half feet of Royal Nephilim fury whose rhyming curses literally warp reality. She’s not happy about my existence. I think she's upset because she has six fingers and couldn't return my salute.

  At the center stands Davina MacAillister, fiery Scottish linguist. When Anakia ignites the Ark of the Covenant to grow a mile-wide World-Tree in the middle of Washington D.C. (yes, really), Davina’s defiance costs her everything — her essence forged into a Master Royal Bell that could enslave humanity and tear the sky apart.

  And that, my delectable reader, brings me to Murray. You'll meet him later. He is Davina’s beloved pet Dumbo rat with a very special fate in store for him as the plushie under your Christmas tree.

  A Marine Corps veteran poured blood, myth, and sheer audacity into every page. He let me loose on the world. Blame him for the chaos.

  I dare you to follow along as Daniel drops more content. Even the vermin get upgrades!

  Good luck putting it down — and keeping me all to yourself.

  With mischief, dramatic entrances, and zero regrets,

  Omnion

  (Corporeal, former lab anomaly, current captain of chaos)

  P.S. Violet hair stays. Marketing can fight me. Imagine Gen Z dying their hair violet for a good reason!

  P.P.S. I smell like ozone, fresh rain, and a touch of lavender. Just think, "violet lightning in a bottle".

  P.P.P.S. I know, darling, traditional publishing takes an entire Age to get a good book into your hands, so I convinced the guy who writes my best lines to give you a little treat. You're welcome!

  Geostrataverse: The Eagle's Ledger

  Chapter 1: Shiny

  The Verdant Fever

  Earth – Age of Jungles (circa 40,000 B.C.)

  Nix buzzed up from the hold like he owned the damn ship, wings a furious blue-violet blur.

  "Ye’re brooding again, feathers. We’re floatin’ through a jungle that wants to eat us, and ye’re philosophizin’ like the strata owes ye a favor. Dive already — or I’ll start singin’ to the lizards and see how ye like that."

  Enkidar’s beak tilted, voice dry as old parchment. "The strata owes no one favors, Nix. It only collects."

  The Prism glided through the Age of Jungles like a leaf on a lazy breeze—twenty-five feet of sleek World-Tree wood hull, her surface etched with faint resonance runes that pulsed soft violet in the dappled light. She was no warship, no leviathan like the Royal Nephilim's behemoths; just a nimble scavenger's craft, light shields humming faint against the humid air, no cannon to speak of.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Cramped inside for her three-crew complement: a small hold for loot, a compact bridge with consoles scaled for hands of varying sizes, and bunks stacked like shelves in a forgotten library.

  Enkidar stood at the helm, eagle head tilted as he scanned the horizon through the forward viewport. His wings folded neat against his back, feathers ruffled by the occasional draft from the open vents. Enkidar was among the few Apkallu sages still unbound—a scholar once revered by kings, now reduced to smuggling relics through strata veins to keep his tiny crew fed. His hands gripped the control staff, linked to the non-Royal Bell at his hip—a golden handbag artifact, less powerful than the Royals' but handy enough. The soul inside was serpent-race, a hissing echo from pre-Flood days, granting just enough resonance to steer the Prism, open certain doors in forgotten places, and flash a bright light for self-defense when things got dicey.

  "Steady on, Prism," Enkidar murmured, voice formal and weary, like a scholar reciting a forgotten tome. "The strata whisper of treasure below. Let us not tarry in this green madness."

  The jungle below was a fairy tale forest scaled up to ridiculous size—gigantic oaks and elms towered a thousand feet, their trunks wrapped in parasitic vines thick as river pythons, blooming enormous purple flowers that dripped nectar like slow rain. Enormous fungi stuck out from the bark like shelf brackets the size of houses, spore-clouds puffing in the wind like distant smoke signals. Giant nut trees dominated the canopy, their acorns the size of boulders crashing down to crush lesser growth, leaving craters where new saplings fought for light. No fruit trees—only these armored behemoths, shells hard as stone. Above them all, the great World-Trees. Burdened with their cities and Royal Nephilim tyranny.

  Dinosaurs lumbered through the undergrowth—brontosaurs with necks like living towers, their hides scarred from scraping against low branches. A tyrannosaur with jaws wide as a phase ship's hold roared in the distance, its cry echoing like thunder. And on the horizon, a 450-foot giant rumbled past—skin like weathered bark, steps shaking the earth, oblivious to the tiny ship floating mid-level.

  Nix buzzed up from the hold—hand-sized fay, iridescent dragonfly wings flickering ley-line blue-violet, ember-orange eyes gleaming with mischief. His ragged tunic shifted glamour like living cloth—leaf to leather to shadow in a heartbeat. "Ye’re glidin’ like a drunk buzzard again, feathers. We've got a haul waitin’ in that ziggurat—gold, resonance crystals, maybe a Bell if the lizards left one. Stop broodin’ and dive."

  Enkidar’s beak tilted, voice edged with weary sarcasm. "Wisdom is knowing when to flee, Nix. Greed is knowing when to grab. The difference is the difference between life and a slow death in this green realm or between the unforgiving layers of the stratacosm."

  Nix laughed—high, mocking. "Ye and yer wisdom. I’ve lived through three apocalypses and I’m still here. Grab the shiny, bird-brain."

  From the bunk below, a soft voice piped up—human, tired but steady. "If you two are done quibbling, my stomach's growling. Last meal was that giant acorn stew—tasted like woodchips."

  Sari, the human slave-turned-crew, climbed up from the hold—thin, scarred from hard life, but eyes sharp with the resilience of someone who’d survived Nephilim whips and worse. Enkidar had "stolen" her from a Royal caravan years ago—not for pity, but because she knew maps better than any fay trick. He treated her decent—food when there was food, a bunk, no chains. Times were lean, though. Scores like this kept them flying.

  Enkidar nodded. "Patience, Sari. The strata calls. A phase dive it is."

  The Prism shuddered as Enkidar gripped the control staff tighter, the serpent-soul Bell at his hip humming faint. The ship punched into a hidden vein—hull vibrating like a struck bell as roots parted like flesh. Resonance storm bloomed around them in violet-gold chaos, the strata tearing open with a roar that rattled teeth and set nerves on fire. The dive was rough—no Royal Bell's infinite power here, just the serpent's grudging hiss guiding them through the green hell.

  They emerged in a vast cavern beneath the jungle floor—proto-ziggurat foundations, carved stone pillars wrapped in living vines, glowing with residual resonance. The air was thick with the scent of wet stone and serpent musk. In the center: a half-buried Royal Bell, golden, humming like a living thing.

  Nix’s eyes lit up. “Shiny handbag. Told ye.”

  Enkidar leapt over the side to get a closer look, then landed, his taloned feet gripping the stone. “That is no handbag. That is a Royal Bell. And it is not ours to take.”

  Nix buzzed closer, wings humming. “Not ours yet. Let’s make it ours.”

  Enkidar shook his feathered head, looking uncomfortable.

  "If we take it, every Royal Nephilim within ringing range will be on our trail. Taking it is suicide."

  Nix's wings drooped.

  "Enkidar, we need to eat. We should take it to Trader City. Maybe the museum will want it or something."

  Enkidar tilted his head, eyeing his mischievous companion. "Aye. That might work. Very well."

  The hand bag was stunning. Encrusted with gold, silver and jewels in swirling runes and filigree. It shone with a pale golden light that reminded Enkidar of honey spread across glass.

  The eagle-headed man carefully wrapped the Royal Bell in a cloth, and then lifted it from the accumulated dust.

  He bowed his head momentarily. He did not open a link. This would show respect to the Royal Nephilim in Trader City and better his chances at not being placed under Judgement.

  He slipped the Royal Bell into a pouch on his belt. The golden handbag gave a single, soft chime as it settled against his hip — deeper, richer, hungrier than the modest hum of the serpent-soul Bell already at his waist.

  Enkidar paused, taloned fingers lingering on the new pouch. The serpent-soul hissed faintly — a warning, low and reluctant.

  With a great flap of his wings, he propelled himself back onto the Prism. Reassuming his station at the helm, he muttered, low enough that only the ship could hear:

  “This plan may not be wise.”

  The serpent-soul hissed again — agreement, this time. The Royal Bell remained silent… but it felt like it was listening.